Dearie me, it is difficult to become technically adept.
It seems to require a whole new vocabulary of which it appears I am woefully ignorant.
Aha, said the nice man at the Computer Management centre, probably you are using a classic editor and not a block editor.
The only blocks about which I could confidently claim knowledge are the Chopping sort and the Head sort.
I think I am the latter sort.
I have scowled and frowned, scratched my head and stuck out my tongue, but despite about fourteen emails sent by the quite astonishingly patient chap at the Computer Management Centre, I am still staring blankly at the screen, wondering why it works for the rest of the world and not for me.
The answer, plainly, is because I am a mad old granny without a clue about the cyber-universe. It has bypassed me, somehow, like a bus whose driver is having a bad day, and despite my waving and flagging, it has gone off in a new direction.
I am trying to add my stories to this website, and to shove some of them behind a paywall. This means that when people find me in the cyber-universe, they will come trotting to these pages to read more, only to discover that it is going to cost them two quid.
I am sanguine about this, because I think it unlikely that I will be hotly charging along the road to my first million at any time soon.
Even less so, because I had spent about two hours completing the description soon to be uploaded on my newly-shiny website, coming soon, folks, when I pressed the wrong button and the whole lot slid off the page and disappeared into the dustbin of eternity, never more to be seen.
I was most upset.
I am still most upset, and trying hard not to think about it.
I am going to have to rewrite the whole thing tomorrow.
There is so much to do.
I seem to be spending every waking minute staring woefully at the computer, trying to decipher incomprehensible peculiarities, not helped this morning by yet another letter from the Norwegian tax authority, who owe us four hundred quid.
I am not even going to try to interest Mark in the activities of this august body, it has taken me more than twenty years to get him to look at his own Barclaycard statement, although probably that is just as well given my occasional misadventures in the spending department. Hence I have just pretended to be him and given them my phone number to which two-factor authorisation can be sent. Mark does not get phone signal on oil rigs, and if everything has got to be shelved first for a fortnight whilst they write to him by post, and then for another three weeks until he lands back on terra firma, followed by another week for him to be nagged about doing it, we will never, ever, get the tax rebate.
I spent an hour today trying to log in to their website, but it turned out that the authorisation they had sent me was merely the authorisation which then authorises me to apply for another authorisation. I have had plenty of scuffles with our own dearly beloved revenue service in the past, but the Norwegians are not only worse, they are worse in Norwegian.
They have warned me that I have only got until June to get the paperwork sent for the tax rebate. This seemed like ages when it first started, but it is beginning to look rather alarming.
Here is another in my occasional series of Handy Hints.
Avoid foreign tax collectors.
The first of the New Look might have already materialised at the bottom of this page, where a cyber-bot asks you to Rate This Post and leave a comment.
Please don’t.
